She Comes to It Slowly
by Zofie C. Field
Summary: She comes to it slowly, the acceptance. This is not just a cold. This is not allergies.


**She Comes to It Slowly**

(She comes to it slowly)

She comes to it slowly, the acceptance. This is not just a cold. This is more than allergies, more than the flu. This is more than "a little under the weather_."_

_Tissues hidden in her fist, she is still short of breath, still willing her diaphragm to relax. Scott gingerly places a cup of tea next to her elbow, silent and worried, before slinking awkwardly back to his stool. She accepts the offering with murmured thanks, and as the hot liquid slips down her throat, she tells herself it will help. A little tea, some Vitamin C, a good night's sleep. She'll get rid of this cold once and for all. She'll be fine._

_Lies, she knows. Because the mug of tea is resting on the results of Katja's blood sample, leaving wet circles on the printed truth. She's had the results for days, results that match her own by the very definition of _clone. _And no amount of rereading is going to change them. _

_There is something wrong here, something programmed into her, transcribed on her genes. A predisposition, evolutionary weakness. Something without a name._

(She comes to it slowly)

She comes to it slowly, the dread. Her life is ticking down, minute by minute, cough by cough. The breaths in her chest rattle in anticipation. Will this breath be her last? This one? The next?

_She knew about Katja. But Katja died from a bullet, not from whatever this is. _

_But Jennifer didn't die from a bullet. She died from this illness that started in her double helices and ate its way out of her. Nameless, it consumed her whole. _

_She is startled by Jennifer's illness, by her death. But the dread is slow and sneaky. It does not appear immediately, does not shout to make itself known. Not until after she's closed Jennifer's frozen eyes, not until she's gone home to thaw in a bath, not until she's passed a week decidedly not thinking about it. _

_And then she wakes up in the middle of the night, hand already fumbling on the bedside table for a tissue as her ribs begin to heave. And she knows she is going to die._

(She comes to it slowly)

She comes to it slowly, the realization. She isn't ready to die. There is so much to do, so much love, so much life, so much science. It isn't time to go yet.

_She plans, from the moment she realizes she is going to die, to go quietly. Softly. _They have enough pain already, _she tells herself, when she doesn't call her sisters. _I don't want them to remember me like this_, she reasons, as she keeps it from her parents. _

_And she goes like that. Quiet and soft, burying her wasting body beneath sweaters, tunic shirts and flowing skirts. She goes, a little bit at a time, day after day. Unnoticed._

_She loves them all too much to tell them about this. To let them watch her suffer._

_Until one day, she kisses Delphine goodbye, hand wound through her hair to rest at the base of her skull, body on fire. Kisses her goodbye like she does every morning. But when the door clicks shut and she is alone, she finds herself screaming. She barely notices, her throat is already raw. A box of tissues hits the wall, and she wonders absently who threw it, as she slides down the door. Crumpled on the floor, drowning in tears and sobbing air she can't afford to lose._

_Fuck this. Forget dying softly. She isn't ready to go._

(She comes to it slowly)

She comes to it slowly, the lightness. She is alive. She is well. She is surrounded by life and it is hers for the taking. All of the heavy things, all of the dark have faded away.

_They are ginger with her at first, infuriatingly tender. She fights back against it, rails against their aid and care. But as she fights, she feels the aching in her tired bones. Eventually, she relents. She feels it too, the fragility that has claimed her._

_She grows stronger, slowly but surely. As time goes on, as the new cells flowing through her do their work, she builds herself back up. _

_But still they are ginger. Still she is ginger. The weight of months of waiting, waiting to fall asleep at night and fail to rise in the morning, still rests on her. Weight like that is difficult to slough off. _

_It is a barbecue that does it. An afternoon on Alison's deck. She walks in the door, and Kira comes streaking towards her, singing her name. She squats, scooping the girl into her arms, swinging her around in wide circles. She doesn't think anything of it in the moment. Doesn't think _I am not strong enough for this._ But as she grins back at the grinning girl, it finally dawns on her._ I am alive. I am well. I am not going anywhere.

_And as _I am alive _sinks in, the weight is lifted, and she is light._

(She comes to it slowly)


End file.
